


Test Key

by LealahLupin3



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 13:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18993994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LealahLupin3/pseuds/LealahLupin3
Summary: Your classmates are utter bastards...Much more so than the new professor, who is always drunk and lectures at a break-neck pace and doesn't stop for questions...man, you're in trouble, aren't you?





	Test Key

**Author's Note:**

> So, apparently self-insert means something different now than it did back when I was writing fanfiction more consistently 15 years ago. This started out as a way to insert myself into the story to let off some steam during college and I adapted it into a reader-insert fic, which is why "you" are treated as female. I tried to be as vague as possible about any other specific features like race/looks/etc.

            The first day of a new semester is always nerve-wracking, but it seems this semester will be even worse. Theoretical Astrophysics isn’t your first pick of classes to take, but after your advisor pointed out how good it would look on your transcript when you apply to grad school and the fact that this was the only undergrad program in the region that offered the class, well, you couldn’t afford to pass up the opportunity. You just wish the professor had a bit less of a…reputation. There were whispers all around campus that he’s an unstable sociopath who won’t give any outside help, and a tough grader to boot. Your advisor assures you that Dr. Sanchez is competent and knowledgeable in his field and the college wouldn’t have hired him if they thought he was dangerous. You aren’t so sure about that one; the small community college was so underfunded that it seemed to you that they’d have to hire whomever they could, but you agree to take the class. You can always drop it if he was as bad as everyone said he was.

            You choose a seat in the middle row and slid into it, leaning your bookbag against the chair as you bend down to pull out your laptop. You usually prefer something closer to a wall so you have a power outlet close by in case something happens with your laptop, but these are old stadium-style seats and none of them are close enough to an outlet unless you sit in the back row and you don’t want to do that. You have a hard enough time seeing the board as it is, thank you very much. People file in as the minutes tick by, most of them chatting loudly with each other and ignoring you as they find their seats. You’re surprised to see how quickly the classroom fills up, all things considered. More time ticks by and it’s time for class to begin, but the professor hasn’t shown yet. You drum your fingers on your desk nervously. Ten minutes later you’re just about ready to go to the registrar and drop the class when a man sweeps in and slams the door, effectively quieting the classroom. Your heart drops into your stomach; he’s swaying like he’s drunk and he looks like he hasn’t washed his clothes in a few days. He certainly doesn’t _look_ like an expert in theoretical astrophysics. Your heart drops even further when he opens his mouth.

            “My name is-is-hic-Rick Sanchez, students, and this, this is theurrrrp-theoretical astrophysics.” He writes his name in a pointed, spidery scrawl on the whiteboard before he turns around. “All the grading information is posted online, we-we-we-we don’t have time to go over that crap if you’re gonna learn what I have to teach in the time we have. Pay attention or you’re gonna be lost.” With that sole, meager warning he turns around and your doubts on whether someone accidentally let the homeless drunk from down the street in disappear as he starts scrawling a complex, multi-part equation on the whiteboard a mile a minute. Your fingers fly to keep up with him and he speaks. He slurs his words a bit and seems to have something of a stutter, not to mention his sentences are peppered with hiccups and belches, but the man definitely knows what he’s talking about and then some. Your head is spinning by the time he finishes his lecture and dismisses the class and you have five full pages of notes you’ll have to sort through and organize.

            Over the next two weeks, you find the rhythm the class runs to. Dr. Sanchez comes in a few minutes late, usually slightly drunk or a little hungover, he speaks very quickly and at length about complex topics you have to spend hours outside of class reviewing to understand, usually while scrawling illegibly on the whiteboard, and he usually leaves a few minutes at the end for questions. You never raise your hand, though. You’re shy, and you can never think of what to ask, though you’re barely grasping the concepts he’s teaching. Luckily for you, the other student’s questions manage to fill in most of the gaps.

            Or, you think they’re filling in the gaps until you get your first test back. 71, and the highest grade in the class to boot. You stare at the uneven, messy red scrawl over the page in almost disbelief. You studied your ass off for that thing! Dr. Sanchez doesn’t believe in reviewing tests, either, because the next class session he’s back to lecturing about an incomprehensible topic at a break-neck pace. As you exit class, flustered and angry, you notice that a group of classmates has gathered in the atrium of the building.

            “He didn’t even put the answers on the test!” one girl complained. You stop to join the group.

            “I heard that you actually have to go to him during his office hours to get the answers for the test!” another girl says conspiratorially. Everyone groans. His office hours are 8:30 to 9:30 at night and the actual office is in the furthest building away from the main buildings on campus.

“Well, one of us is just going to have to go and get the key,” a tall boy says. The rest of the group murmurs in agreement and your stomach drops when he turns to you. “You had the highest grade in the class, didn’t you?” he asks.

“Yeah...” you respond, a foreboding feeling gathering in your stomach. You know what he’s going to say before he says it.

“You should go.” The rest of the group murmurs in agreement exactly as before.

“But--” He cuts you off before you can explain that you walk to and from the campus each day and you don’t particularly want to walk home in the dark, especially after the safety seminar you sat through last week.

“It’s settled then! Meet us back here tomorrow before class. See if he’ll explain number 8 to you, but if he won’t that’s ok.”

“Hey!” They don’t listen to you call after them as they walk away, though.

You almost don’t go. _You_ passed the test, after all, and if they were just going to assume you were going to do their dirty work for them they deserved not having the answers. You need those answers too, though, if you ever want to be able to pass future tests and if this was the only way to get them... You sigh. Maybe you can sleep in the student center afterward and walk home when it’s light.

So, at precisely 8:30, you find yourself nervously standing outside the door of the one professor you’ve never said a single word to. Still wondering why you’re doing this, you gently rap on the door. “Y-yeah,” you hear his rough voice call. When you push the door open he’s sitting behind his desk and you get your first good, up-close look at him.

Dr. Sanchez is a tall, slender man with what you assume is an unnaturally blue shock of hair and dark circles under his eyes. He regards you with a half-lidded, bored expression that unexpectedly causes a twist in your belly as he lifts his head from the papers on his desk.

“Um, I’m from your 2:00 class, and--”

“I know who you are,” he says, returning his attention to the paperwork on his desk.

“Oh...right...of course you do. I, uh...”

“I’m surprised it’s _you,_ ” he says, not looking up from his papers.

“Huh?” you say. Smooth.

“Someone comes for the key every semester,” he commented. “Usually, it’s the l-loser who failed the worst, but you’re the only one who passed this time. What made you timid enough to come?” he asked with a dark smirk.

“Who cares who comes?” you answer back. “I just need that key. No one said I was going to give it to anyone else. They should do their own damn dirty work and come to you for it.”

“There’s some _urrrrp_ backbone,” Dr. Sanchez said with a grin. “If that’s the case, copy it he-he- _hic-_ here and don’t bother with the others.” He pulled the key out of his desk drawer and placed it on his desk, facing you, so you could copy it out on your own test. You’re a little nervous as you take the pencil from your backpack along with your test. He was still staring at you, sizing you up. You try to ignore him for the time being and get this test copied out. “I’m glad I could help you get up the backbone to fuck over the other students,” he says facetiously.

“Who said I wasn’t going to when I came into your office anyway,” you ask casually.

“Because,” he said, drawing his face close to yours. He didn’t smell like alcohol a bit, so you wonder why he was hiccupping and burping. “Because I know you walk home from school every day and that it isn’t exactly a short walk. You’d be getting someone else to come here if you really could get up the balls.” You don’t know why, because his words infuriate you, but with his face close to yours you get the urge to kiss him. He’s attractive in his own way and he was obviously brilliant. He was just also arrogant and kind of a prick. “You’re gonna be sleeping in the student center tonight, aren’t you?”

“It’s not like the first time I’ve ever had to do that,” you scoff. “I’m a busy student.” He gave a smirk again and came around his desk and looked over your back.

“You’re copying 7 wrong,” he said smugly. Gritting your teeth against the shiver that ran through your body at the feel of his breath on the back of your neck, you erase number seven and re-copy it. You are certain that he could notice at least the blush creeping up your ears.

You aren’t quite sure why, but you’re attracted to this man. Maybe it was his brilliance, maybe your type was older, thin-as-rail men, but there was something about his smug, arrogant personality that drew you to him. You wonder if he can smell the moisture gathering in your panties. You’re _definitely_ sure he can tell you’re attracted to him by the way he put his hand on yours as you use the other one to write.

“Got a thing for old men?” he sneers in your ear.

“N-No,” you say in a futile attempt to one-up him. Of course, it doesn’t work.

“Then it must be just me,” he said smoothly, running his hand up your spine. “I’ll get you home safe if you let me fuck you.”

“B-but you’re a professor,” you say, shuddering as his hand slid back down your spine again.

“Are you going to turn me- _hic-_ in?” he asked.

“No,” you practically moan.

“So is that a yes?” One of his hands held your neck, just gently for now, caressing it.

“Yes,” you respond. You can almost feel his grin as he travels up your spine again, pushing hard enough this time to bend you over the desk.

“Good,” he says. Then, he pushes your pants down along with your underwear and inserts two of his long fingers into you. You yelp in surprise, then you moan as he starts moving. “Just this for now. Get on birth control or bring condoms next time,” he says roughly. All you can do is cry out because now he’s found your g-spot and is pushing relentlessly against it. “There it is,” he murmurs. When you move backward you can feel his other hand moving, presumably to beat himself off. Apparently, he liked to give as much as he took.

“You’re a dirty little thing, aren’t you?” he says, twisting his hand so he can play with your clit as well. You’re beyond the point of speech. “You like being finger fucked in your professor’s office, don’t you?”

“Dr. Sanchez,” you whimper. So quickly he’s gotten you so close. You cry out as he withdraws.

“Rick,” he growls in your ear.

“Rick,” you correct yourself. “Please don’t stop!” He puts two fingers just inside your aching pussy, enough to rub the entrance but not enough to get the friction you crave.

“I want this to go slow,” he murmurs, his voice back to its lower, softer register. You can tell he’s beating off again by the way his hand moves across the small of your back. He started moving his hand slowly again, bumping up against your g-spot much slower than previously. You cry out each time he does and he isn’t playing with your clit anymore. Just when you’re close to the edge again and your pussy is starting to pulse, he pulls out again and stops.

“Rick!” you whine.

“Slow,” he reprimands you. He stops for what seems like an eternity, leaving you to wiggle and moan and try to get his fingers back inside you. He still has one hand on your back though, and he’s pushing you down hard enough that you can’t go far. When he thinks you’ve calmed down sufficiently, he neglects your aching, wet opening and goes directly for your clit.

“Ahhh!” You try to shove back hard against him from the sensations he’s giving, his fingers swirling around and rolling your clit between them. It takes you a much shorter time to get to the edge this time, and again he pulls back.

“Rick! Please make me come,” you beg, far past the point of caring about your dignity. “I need it! Please don’t stop, just make me come!” Your begging comes out as a sob. This time he doesn’t even wait for you to calm down before he shoves two fingers into your pussy, immediately finds your g-spot, and twists his hand to play with your clit as well. “Oh! Oh yes! Yes, just like that. Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna…I’m coming!” You gush fluid onto his hand, thrusting back on it to get more stimulation as you spasm again and again. Vaguely, you can hear a guttural groan behind you and you feel something warm splash on the small of your back.

You pant, still sprawled on the desk as he takes a tissue and wipes himself off, then another and wipes off the small of your back. You’re still trying to catch your breath as he zips himself back up. After a few seconds, you stand and pull your pants back up, your eyes half-lidded in sweet satisfaction. He doesn’t seem so salty after a good orgasm either as he says “I promised to get you home, didn’t I?”

You nod slowly, your head still fuzzy from pleasure. Orgasm denial was a big fantasy of yours for a long time and it was just as good as you had imagined it would be. Rick takes a small gun with knobs all over it and fiddles with turning one of them. “This your address?” he asks, holding the display up to you. It is, and it even specifies which bedroom you use. You nod, looking at the gun before he points it at the wall and shoots. A green portal appears on the wall and you stare in wonderment. Did he create this? He takes your hand before you can protest and suddenly you’re in your room. He gives you a smug smile before he has one foot through the portal. “Come back Wednesday and we can do it again.”

“Wait!” you cry, your arm stretched out, but he’s already through and the portal has disappeared. You’ve forgotten the key _and_ your corrected test paper…


End file.
